


run into the altar like a truck stop

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Weddings, apocalypse we might die shotgun wedding, jus very tender :(, set between mag191 and 192, thats about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘Would you like to marry me?’‘Oh, woah. Well, yeah. God, of course I would. Looking forward to it. Wait, did you mean-?’‘I meant now.’when youre about to go into the climactic battle and youre not sure how its all going to turn out so you decide to get apocalypse married...
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, background Georgie/Melanie
Comments: 37
Kudos: 175





	run into the altar like a truck stop

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to apologise for naming this fic after a justin beiber song but then i looked up and lyrics and turns out i was singing them wrong the whole time so instead i will jus say wow enjoy this unique fic title from my own brain. i think my version is better anyway 
> 
> melanie is little a ooc nice to jon in this in my defence i wrote most of this before 191 aired i love that she canonically does not vibe w him but little a indulgence ig
> 
> enjoy these boys getting hitched

The pillow that has been all over the country in Martin's rucksack is lumpy with being squashed and twisted, and without a cover it’s scratchy against Jon's cheek. Still, he shoves deeper into it, not quite ready to face the world. Its fibres rub against his lashes but it is a great deal more comfortable than the day's hard questions. His eyes are closed, which sort of answers Martin's question for him.

‘You awake?’

‘Hmm,’ Jon agrees. 

A warm hand slips easily into the hair behind his ear and strokes, familiar and comforting, but clumsy with the early morning. At least he can only assume it’s morning - it’s been hard to tell since - 

‘That a yes?’

Jon opens his eyes then, slowly, blinking back crusted sleep like any normal person in the morning. He stretches up into Martin's hand, smiles at the familiar look of morning on his boyfriend’s face, just an inch away and creased with lines from the pillow and crows feet. 

‘Thinking,’ he says, by way of  _ good morning. _

He clears his throat of gravelly rest. It wasn’t a particularly awful night's sleep, as they go. In some ways the light almost sleep is worse sometimes for turning it all over in his mind. It sloshes in the same sad circles like a loud washing machine. The same grey and murky uncertain water. It doesn’t help that his head is a little fuzzy down here either - that fact in itself is something to worry over, then enjoy and relax into, then worry over how it feels relaxing. 

He can feel his eye twitching with it all even now, see Martim frowning sympathetically at it. 

‘I don't know what to do,’ he admits simply, sighing into their sad little pillow. ‘I hate not knowing what to do.’

Martin makes a consoling, resigned sort of sound and shuffles closer. ‘I know, love,’ he says, a soothing lament, ‘I know.’ Then he hums and his tone changes to brisk, amused and practical. ‘But... right now your options are stay here and sleep in with me orrr get up and piss some more cult people off, and I'm not gonna be happy if you pick them over me.’ 

Jon huffs a laugh into his neck. He loves both the humour and the usefulness Martin’s cheer up strategies tend to have. As much as sometimes he’d rather wallow, or rather just cling on tight, that is what keeps him moving forward. Martin is digging through the bunched up sleeping bag between them, rummaging around their cold knees. After a moment he fishes out the long sock they’ve been using as an eye mask and holds it up. 

‘That make it any easier for you?’

It does, Jon thinks. It really does. When you can so quickly find the options and lay them out like that, like we’ve just got to get on with the next thing we  _ can  _ do. You make everything easier. 

Instead of saying this he smiles with it. ‘Mmmmmm I don't know, Arun’s poetry is pretty tempting...’

Martin gasps and pushes his cheek into the pillow. ‘Don't you dare!’

Jon laughs as he wrestles his way back, grabs Martin’s smacking hand and pulls it into his chest. When they’ve died back down to sleep chuckles, he takes the offered eye mask. 

‘Much easier, thank you.’

He lays the sock over his open eyes and snuggles down against the pillow, as close to the warmth of Martin’s chest as he can get. Fingertips gently sweep some fallen hair out of his face and reach back to soothe behind his ear again. They’ve not had too many nights sleeping together, not as many as they’ve had endless days, but Martin's hand fits there naturally now, like a puzzle piece. 

‘Obviously it's a lot to think about, still,’ he murmurs as he strokes, ‘even more so with everyone else here. But...’

‘Hmmm..?’ Jon questions, pushing the sock up his forehead. 

Martin shrugs, a smile twitching into his cheek. ‘I don’t know. Safety, food, a sleeping bag and you... height of luxury right now isn't it?’

His hand slides down a bit so it’s cupped solidly around the nape of Jon’s neck, and Jon hums with appreciative amusement at this manoeuvre. He shuffles closer, seeking warm lips. ‘Mmm it is a bit.’

Martin makes a small noise of protest and stops Jon's mouth with his fingers. ‘Oi,’ he laughs, nodding over Jon’s shoulder, ‘turn that off first.’

Jon makes a put out face as he rolls over to see a tape recorder whirring away. He has no idea why it's here for a good morning, but it doesn’t surprise him. It never does anymore. 

He rolls back over with as sardonic a look as he can muster this soon after waking up. ‘Seriously? All it's heard and this is too private?’

‘Well ironically I'm not really into voyeurism,’ Martin says, allowing them both a second to scoff-laugh at that before going on, ‘sooo if you're going to come kiss me you better turn it-’

The rest of his sentence is swallowed in a kiss as Jon flaps a hand behind him for the stop button. 

After a whole morning of talking to the scavengers, Jon is beginning to think he’d almost rather go outside again and glare into some cameras. Trying to explain the entities is like handing building blocks to children, like pulling teeth. And he’s aware he’s being a prick, but all the fun is taken out of it when he’s actually trying. Knowing that doesn’t help his patience. 

Melanie and Georgie clearly struggle with it too, and even they have questions he can’t know the answers to. Martin has that tired look of being nice and wearing a sympathetic look for too long without a break. It must be weird for him, to be fair. Somehow being the one who gets it  _ more,  _ whilst clearly having empathy for their frustration with trying to rationalise things that, again,  _ just aren’t logical. _

It is a huge relief then, when Melanie tells them they should probably take a lunch break, and tugs Jon’s elbow into a corner. He’s ready for an argument, but honestly at least that would be a change. 

Instead she lowers her voice. ‘Listen, do you want to get out for a bit?’

‘What?’ yes, truthfully, but he shakes his head. ‘No, I... it’s alright. I don’t want to cause you any problems down here. I don’t need a statement that badly.’

She frowns at that, but sighs, seemingly committing to her choice of talking without fighting. ‘I don’t mean outside. There are other tunnels. Me and Georgie go sometimes just... for privacy. To have a break.’

‘Oh, that would be nice, actually. Thank you, Melanie.’

She scoffs as she waves Martin over. He looks very relieved to leave his conversation as he pats Danielle’s arm. 

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Melanie says as she points them in the right direction. ‘And don’t tell anyone I told you.’

Martin laces their hands together as soon as they start following the path, pushes a kiss into Jon's temple as they round the corner. ‘Oooh,’ he says cheerily, ‘so we’ve been given access to the sneaking off tunnels? Spooky sit-down or a refreshing walk then?’ 

It’s already calming to have to space to just be them again, as nice as it is to see everyone and socialise. Nice to go back to their own language. 

‘Want to explore a bit?’

‘Sure. Hang on - tunnel monsters? The other archivists?’

‘I know where they are. They won’t hurt us.’

‘Okay, if you’re sure.’

Exploring feels a bit different now that the tunnels aren’t the hiding ground of all evil, now that they’ve got two torch beams and each other’s hands. It’s actually not an unpleasant space to pointedly talk about nothing important.

Poking about reveals a few weird empty rooms, some store caches, and a hideaway with a double lilo and a pile of blankets that makes them both raise their eyebrows. 

‘I’m happy for them,’ Jon insists through their very childish giggles, ‘I  _ really  _ am.’

‘Oh they're very happy, clearly. I wonder if Helen offered them the honeymoon suite too...’ Martin hums, suggestively elbowing Jon in the ribs, already creased from laughing. 

‘I should never have told you that.’

‘Did you tear it down with the hotel or d’you think the offer still stands?’

‘I should never-!’

A little more wandering, and Jon is just starting to wonder if they should head back for lunch, when a strange beam of light falls at their feet. 

Following it leads through a doorway. It’s coming from high up, but not high enough to make any sense considering how many slopes they’ve walked down, how dark it is everywhere else. 

The light is fractured like god rays. It is warm and illuminates the dust like a morning sunlight Jon doubts London gets anymore. It doesn’t make sense how humanly pretty it is. 

Curiosity pulls him through the doorway, and clearly the light is normal enough that, even though normal hasn’t been trustworthy for so long, Martin doesn’t hesitate in following him. 

‘What the fuck?’

‘Good question.’

‘Okay but seriously. These are meant to be Milbank prison tunnels, right?’

Jon looks up at the high, high ceiling, arched with beams and artistic patterns. The long aisle of flagstone floor, flanked by rows and rows of hard pews leads to a firm and simple altar. To the left of it rises a tall pulpit carved from dark, twisted wood, growing fungus-like from one of several heavy stone pillars.

The whole thing is bathed in that same godly, daytime light. Only now it casts tiled patterns like a jagged kaleidoscope on the floor, streaming in through high arched windows which house impossible illustrations in warped coloured glass.

‘It must be the old prison chapel,’ he breathes. 

Martin rounds on him. ‘Jon, prison chapels dont look like this! They don't have- bloody- stained glass windows! And we’re  _ underground _ , where’s the light coming from?’

He smiles. ‘I don’t know.’

‘As happy as I am for you, it’s more convenient when you  _ do  _ know.’

Jon shrugs, grins. ‘Dream-logic prison chapel is my final guess for five-hundred.’

Martin looks like he very much wants to pull a face, but can’t quite do so, can’t do anything that might call the space ugly. That just wouldn’t be true. 

‘And is it trying to kill and eat us?’

‘No. I think I’d know if it was.’

Martin nods and seems satisfied enough to step into it and look around. ‘It’s more of a cathedral, really,’ he says, teasingly pedantic now.

Then he takes off - strolls right down the aisle and steps almost gleefully into the pulpit. ‘Always wanted to get up here as a kid, just because it wasn’t allowed.’ 

Jon follows him down the aisle, feeling an idea, a yearning, growing in each footstep as he savours the point of view - the perspective of the lines of pews narrowing to the altar. He stops a little ways from the front and looks up at Martin grinning like a kid in a treehouse. 

‘And how does the forbidden fruit taste?’

‘Hm, well it’s always nice to feel tall.’

‘You  _ are _ tall.’

‘I’m taller than you, that’s not saying an awful lot.’

‘Excuse me?’

Martin grins, leans on his elbow on the pulpit like a bar. ‘View’s lovely,’ he says, batting his eyes when Jon rolls his. ‘Not a fan of everyone watching though.’

Jon wheels around. ‘What?!’

There is no one in the pews, just as he thought when they came in. He turns back to see Martin snickering. ‘Kidding. No ghost congregation.’

Jon gives him his best glower. ‘You arse.’

Martin just laughs again. He looks beautiful - a halo of coloured light through hair he’s actually had a chance to wash, smiling even as the joke fades. 

‘It is beautiful,’ he allows, looking through the glass, ‘even if it  _ is _ probably a nightmare of some sort.’ 

His little smile is the thing that warms and emboldens Jon enough to swan over and offer his hand up. ‘I don’t know,’ he muses, ‘if it  _ is  _ dream-logic, I don’t think it’s a bad one.’

Martin grins, takes his hand and hops down from the pulpit for a short, sweet kiss. Then he looks up again at the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling, as if taking one last look, and Jon figures he better do it now then. 

‘I might have an idea why it’s here,’ he says vaguely to start. ‘Or, not  _ why _ , but something it could be for, theoretically?’ 

‘Hm?’ Martin raises an eyebrow as he’s tugged back into the aisle. 

‘Well, um,’

‘What?’ He prods Jons arm in a teasing way that says  _ out with it. _

‘Would you like to marry me?’

That puts a stop to his steps. His face goes very slack with surprise, then awe, and he blinks as he tries to find words in that overwhelmed sort of way that in the early days had made Jon scramble to take back whatever he’d said that had caused it. Now he just waits until Martin breathes ‘oh, woah. Well, yeah. God, of course I would.’ He smiles, squeezes Jon's fingers. ‘Looking forward to it. Wait, did you mean-?’

‘I meant now.’

‘Right now?!’

‘Well, you know. Church. Stained glass. Not a nightmare. It seemed optimum.’

‘Optimum?’ Martin frowns, reaches out for Jon's forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You’re not feeling dizzy or anything, are you?’

‘I feel fine,’ Jon insists, ‘clear as day. Look I know you’re not really a church person, I’m not either, but... optimum as in... I love you _.’ _

‘I love you too. And you know I would love to, I mean, wow I’d  _ love to.  _ It just,’ Martin chews his lip a bit, and he’s either thinking because he’s not sure or because he’s thinking away around the difficult thing he’s sure about. ‘It wasn’t something I ever thought about rushing?’

Jon sighs. He doesn’t like having to lead these conversations any more than Martin likes having them, but he feels his reasoning more strongly even now than he did first stepping in to the chapel. They’re stood only a few feet from the altar, and they’re better at this now than they used to be. Every time better. He wants to keep doing that, being that, trying with a promise to keep. 

‘Can we... acknowledge there might be a reason to rush?’

That clearly puts a bit of a damper on things. Martin sighs, blinking slowly enough that Jon thinks he’s just closed his eyes against the question. Eventually he says, very small, ‘I have to hope...’

‘I know you do.’

‘I just... I want to believe that we’re going to be alright, you know?’ His voice wavers dangerously and he ploughs on with double the determination. If will alone could make things so then Jon could almost believe him. ‘We’re going to be alright and I’m going to marry you in a normal, non-haunted registry office in normal London when we’re fine and have a flat to go home to after and I don’t look a state.’

‘I want that too,’ Jon maintains gently, ‘You  _ know  _ I do and I want to believe we’ll get it but...’ He trails off, shrugging sort of helplessly. 

The blank is still too nebulously awful to fill in out loud. They have talked about it already. Almost all of it. No need to bring it up again. He already thinks and dreads and drowns in it far too often. 

So instead he settles for ‘I have to be realistic,’ and lets them both sigh before going on. ‘If the worst happens, I’d like to have done this, in the end. I want to go into whatever we’re going into with you.  _ With you.  _ This way I won’t... even if I forget we won’t miss it

Martin is dejectedly examining the flagstones. Whatever progress they’ve made having these heavy conversations, but he still doesn’t love them coming up, and Jon still appreciates the generosity of his silent listening and understanding. It helps, he thinks. He does feel lighter for saying it, scary as it is. He swings their hands gratefully. 

‘Besides,’ he adds, ‘we can have the party later. Cake. Holiday. All that.’ 

His return to playfulness clearly works as a returning of the favour. Martin looks back up and his smile reaches his sad eyes. 

‘And-’ Jon remembers, taking Martin's other hand and using them both to squish into his cheek. ‘You don’t look a state.’

Martin tuts his hand away, making a sound that’s half cringed and half a genuine aww. He grins with his mouth tightly shut - his  _ bad at taking a compliment  _ face. 

‘As a matter of fact I think you look very handsome,’ Jon says smugly just to rub it in. ‘And anyone would be lucky to marry you just as you are.’ 

Martin's ears go very red as he scoffs a laugh and determinedly looks over Jon’s head at the opposite wall, at the ceiling. He laughs properly, blushes properly, at Jon leaning on tiptoe to chase his eye line. 

‘Yes, alright, alright!’ He takes a breath and says ‘ _ thank you _ ,’ very pointedly, before quickly moving on. ‘Don't we need an officiant?’ He chuckles again, looking around at all the empty space. ‘Servant of God?’ 

‘Well,’ Jon shrugs happily, ‘I serve some kind of god, will I do?’ 

‘Jesus,’

‘Not quite.’ 

‘Shut up,’ Martin tells him, grinning, ‘yes you'll do. Not sure you can  _ legally _ officiate your own wedding but I suppose everything’s changed anyway.’ He slides his hand down Jon's arm, over his wrist before slotting their fingers together. ‘Are we doing this then?’ His voice is quiet when he asks seriously. 

‘Yes,’ Jon tells him just as softly, making an executive decision, ‘we are.’

He has to drop one hand then, but it’s worth it to turn and face the altar and to feel Martin's awed steadying breath beside him as they walk towards it together. 

Reaching it, Jon steps back a bit before turning and taking Martin's other hand again, so that they’re stood, facing each other, a formal distance apart with their hands clasped in the middle.

‘Okay,’ Martin nods after a second, ‘well, uh. I don’t really remember the whole script back to back.’

‘I think a little muddling through is allowed,’ Jon teases, endlessly endeared by his commitment to getting these things right. 

Martin might not like church, but this is all very old fashioned, very traditional, and there’s a proper way to go about things that he values. Usually it’s for the style, but also for the slow appreciation of how it used to be without the rush and the endless capturing of modern life. At least that was how he had explained the joy of baths and bar soap and music on vinyl. If they’d done this properly Jon is sure he would have been banned from outfit shopping in case of bad luck, and come down the aisle to something classic and dreamy. It’s adorable, and he would have only criticised the traditions half-heartedly, full of love. 

‘Okay,’ Martin is nodding now as he tries to remember and reconcile vows with their own situation. ‘Um. Well, then I promise to love you and comfort and cherish and stand by you in... joy and sadness, in sickness, in health, in... eyes and watching and all of that,’ he says. 

The lack of smooth poetics in it makes his mouth twitch but it’s serious, and Jon knows as he knows every time without interference that he means it. He's struck, as he is every time to the gut with how lucky he is. It makes his eyes swim a bit.  _ You don't deserve it, you've burdened him and ruined his life _ , is the familiar weight that usually comes with that, but here it seems it is nowhere to be found, and Jon could cry with the relief of for once just being allowed to feel blissfully happy.

He resists the urge to go in for a kiss, knowing the jostling and ' _ thought you said _ 's he’ll get for breaking the tradition. Instead he squeezes Martin’s hand and tries to formulate his own soft words.

‘For richer, or poorer, for better, for worse,’ he recites, taking the convention of it seriously, happily so. ‘For... the future, h-however long that is. The rest of my life. Whatever happens, whatever choices we have to make. I mean, I know I already said but I promise I don’t want to jump on a grenade more than I want to be with you.’ He struggles mouth open for the last. Then it comes easily as breathing. ‘Until... until I last breathe I'm yours.’

He swallows, then looks up to see Martin blinking at him rapidly, a wet sheen making his brown eyes glisten in the church light. 

‘Or I suppose,’ Jon goes on hurriedly, suddenly realising how awful it would be to break the vow he couldn’t really make, ‘I mean unless I become some monster - more of a monster - or I lose my mind-‘

‘Aw,’ Martin tuts, still blinking, ‘don’t ruin it-’

‘I just- I just mean, if-if I forget everything you’re not obligated to stay with me.’ 

‘Don’t be silly, Martin tells him firmly, letting go for a moment to cup his palm round Jon's cheek. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Jon opens his mouth to interrupt this but - ‘You  _ know  _ I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think ‘Till death do us part’ needs a rewrite, Jon.’ 

Jon nods, gently defeated as he always is by that. The solid devotion. He lifts his hand to press Martin's palm closer into his cheek, feeling the need to ask  _ really?  _ But it sounds too pathetic even in his head. He can practically see Martin's face falling into a soft  _ yes, really,  _ feel it in the stroking thumb under his eye. He stills it before it can wipe up the tears threatening his waterline, brings it in between them and holds it tight. 

Martin follows his gaze to his fingertips, curled gently into Jon's first, to the thumb stroking over his knuckles. ‘I wish I had a ring now,’ he murmurs. 

In the serene stillness of the chapel, the slow kiss Jon presses to his left ring finger is the only quiet sound. The dry click as he pulls back doesn’t ring or echo, but it seems just as loud as the words. The wet of his lips feels a little chill against the air.

Martin sucks in a breath. ‘Okay, so that... that seals the deal then?’ 

He leans in to repeat the motion, lips dry and gentle. Then he moves back, looking at that same spot on Jon's ring finger. Clears his throat like a blast compared to the quiet of before. 

‘Right. Well then, I take thee prince of the ruined world, herald of the ceaseless-’

‘None of that, thank you,’ Jon cuts him off, gentle but firmly selfish. He doesn’t want all that right now, doesn’t want to promise himself to the man he loves as a monster. 

Martin sighs, nodding. He gets the serious, pleading note in it and settles his face into something more earnest. ‘Then I take you Jonathan Sims to be my wedded husband.’ 

He blows out a breath after the profound full stop, and pitches forward to drop his forehead onto Jons. ‘Okay,’ he says, voicing the very heavy thing that Jon is thinking already, ‘that sounded very real.’

‘Yes it did,’ Jon agrees, quietly exhaling and feeling the way their breath intermingles when they’re talking this close. It ghosts warm over his slightly open mouth and tastes so deep and human compared to the dust of the church. ‘We are real, still, I suppose.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Martin says simply. ‘Yeah.’

He actually sniffs then, and maybe they should stay and settle into the mood, appreciate its heavy sincerity. They take another second, breathing it, resting on each other’s weight. Their cheeks roll against each other’s and a touch of gritty wet rubs between them. Tears are real, Jon supposes, sincere, and maybe they should let the world pause here and just cry before the altar. But really he doubts the catharsis would be worth it. Actually, his sincere urge is to make Martin laugh again. So he does. 

With a cough and a little shake as he straightens up. ‘And I do take thee Martin Kieran Keats Kit Krzysztof Kacper-’

‘Fuck offf!’ Martin splutters laughing and pushes his smug grin away. His weak imitation of a slap does nothing to stop Jon smiling. He feels very lucky to have this, someone who will just laugh despite the creepiness of Jon just Knowing and reciting all the names he’s ever forged for himself. 

‘Hey,’ he teases, ‘I was willing to believe you!’ 

‘Just ‘K’ is fine.’ 

‘ _ Just ‘K’ _ was fine by me too until I realised you  _ just stuck it in there on a whim and lied to your-’ _

‘Yeah yeah,’ Martin smiles, waving their hands between them, ‘so you're still taking me? lies and all?’ 

Jon kisses his hand again in an effort to resist kissing his face all over. ‘Very much lies and all. To be my new world lawfully wedded husband. Yes.’ 

Martin’s smile turns inward and closed-lipped again. A dimple pops out in his cheek. ‘I like how that sounds.’

‘Yeah,’ Jon agrees, utterly, giddily happy. ‘Me too. I love you.’ 

‘I love you too.’

‘Right, then by the power... forced upon me by manipulative forces and my own bad choices-’

Martin nods and joins in with him. ‘And by the power vested in me by spite and sheer dumb luck-’

‘And good intentions,’ Jon reminds him kindly. 

Martin looks right into his eyes and pushes their hands down for emphasis as he repeats it. ‘And good intentions.’

For once Jon accepts this assessment of himself without arguing. There will be other times. For now he can believe it. 

He smiles with a bit of pride as he finishes the job. ‘I pronounce us. Married. I suppose.’

Then, finally, he gets a kiss. A firm and slow one, calm and hushed, with a hand tracing under his tilted chin. Then another, then another that opens up a little so he can feel the wet behind chapped chaste pecks. He leans up into that to capture more, pushing all the steady joy brimming over in his throat into Martin’s mouth and breathing in the smell of happy tears through his nose. It goes on quite a bit longer than a traditional kiss to seal vows. Somehow he doubts Martin minds in the slightest, with no audience and no time pressure, with Jon's arms thrown around his neck and his own hand snaking round Jon’s waist to pull him closer. 

Eventually, the unhurried ebb and flow of it turns to one last peck, and it slides back into a hug that becomes standing close, slowly stroking up each other’s backs, shoulders. 

‘Thank you,’ Martin says quietly. 

‘For?’

‘Suggesting this. It’s hard to talk about, you know. But I’m glad we did.’ 

Jon kisses him once more in agreement. ‘Thank  _ you  _ for marrying me.’ 

‘I have wanted to hypothetically marry you for a  _ while,’  _ Martin huffs like this is an obvious and comical piece of news, ‘you know, at some point down the line. That was never a question.’ 

He shuffles a bit over this confession, as if it’s embarrassing even after all they’ve just promised. Then he expertly deflects by insisting ‘I  _ am _ getting you a real ring though, after this is all over.’ 

‘Something to look forward to,’ Jon smiles. He leans up sideways to press a kiss on Martin's forehead. ‘Want to go and introduce yourself as the antichrist’s husband?

‘Oh, more than anything,’ his husband grins, ‘if only to see the look on their faces.

Then he sets off wordlessly, and Jon follows him before their hands can tug. 

They head back up the aisle hand in hand, leaning heavily on each other to the point they’re almost knocking the empty pews. 

**Author's Note:**

> can they :( pls be happy :( 
> 
> ty for reading etc love u all <3 commente n subscribe n that x


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